


maybe we were meant to see what's right

by orphan_account



Category: band rpf
Genre: Adultery (kinda), Pining, Unnecessary emo shit involving roses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-07 15:40:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5462015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ryland isn't Gabe, but maybe that's the point. Vaguely scifi au.</p>
            </blockquote>





	maybe we were meant to see what's right

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by and entirely based off of the song "A Quick One While He's Away" by The Who.
> 
> Title from "Perfect" by Midtown.

William wakes up at seven, and doesn't get out of bed until nearly one-thirty. He lies on his back, staring out the window, watching clouds of thick white steam from the reactor float across the grey sky. The blankets seem to lie on him heavier than they should be. At the end of the bed, the lump where his feet are seems detached, almost alien. It might not even be his feet, he thinks. It might be some bricks, or a book, or a bundle of clothes that someone put in the bed accidentally.

“That's bullshit, Billvy,” Gabe would've said. “It's your fucking feet.”

“But what if,” William would've insisted.

Gabe would have put his stupid cold feet on William's then, and when William squealed and jackknifed away he'd grab him around the waist and roll on top of him and kiss him breathless. “Alright, you win,” William would grouse when Gabe came up for air. “They're feet. Happy now?”

William turns his head and shifts. Inches away from his flesh the sheets are cold. He slowly moves his maybe-feet sideways, off the edge of the mattress and to the floor. The boards are chilly, the in-floor heating shut off to conserve energy. He sits up, covers sluggishly sliding down his shoulders, and fixes his gaze on the calendar on the nighttable. It's a cheaply-made freebie from the shipping agency Gabe usually works for, opened to November.

“Eight months,” Gabe had said cheerfully. That had been in January.

William scrubs his eyes and goes through his morning routine, even though it's afternoon. He brushes his teeth, washes his face and shakes his hair out of his eyes, takes his medication and makes a mug of coffee – instant, because real coffee is expensive as hell these days, and he's living on a single income. Between the cold, the coffee and the emotional turmoil, he thinks, mouth quirking, it's almost like being a starving artist again.

The little TV they keep on the side table is quietly murmuring, and he turns it up. An android-like weatherman predicts in a monotone a week of light cold rain, light cold winds, and possible flurries, before being replaced by the local anchorman, a tiny man with a shock of bleach-blond hair and an electric blue suit.

The news is dark, fitting perfectly with the weather and William's mood. There's a segment on teenage hooligans receiving adult sentencing, a warning of rising heating costs, a story about a woman out alone in the evening being attacked by a stranger, and a report on increasing corruption in industry executive circles.

After the news is a documentary on disasters throughout the history of flight.

William hastily gets up and switches off the TV, sets down his mug and slowly makes his way to the door. He has some errands to do before his Sunday evening walk.

Pharmacy, library, bank, generic clothing store for some thicker socks. He leaves groceries for last, because he still feels a vague sense of guilt over how Gabe would react to how little he eats in the course of a week. Somewhere along the way he passes a storefront with a pile of Siamese kittens wrestling in the window, and pauses to watch them. One stares at him with its gigantic piercing blue eyes, eerie bright and unblinking. William shakes his head and hurries on.

He's tempted, of course. He's been tempted many times since January, but he always reminds himself that the flat is cold, he's always at work, there's probably not enough money for the vet. “Don't be a martyr, Billvy,” Gabe would scoff. “Get yourself a fucking kitten if you want one. You're alone all the time and heaven knows there's enough kittens in the world that need homes.”

But Gabe isn't there to push him, and that's the problem – it's what's always the problem, these days. He needs Gabe to make him do anything rash, anything different, anything that makes him feel alive – and so he drinks instant coffee and lies in bed staring out at the clouds of steam.

“Hello, sir,” says the poor bubbly salesgirl who's been assigned to assault customers with weird-smelling body products as they come in the door, “can I interest you in a free sample of our new line of men's colognes, a blend of eucalyptus extract and oil of – ”

William humours her because, as Gabe would say, he's an angel who doesn't have it in him to be even a little bit rude, but moreso because he remembers well enough what it's like working in retail, back in the true starving artist days. The stuff she smears on his wrist smells like the putrid memory of a lilac bush, and looks exactly like cum. He wonders if it tastes like cum too, and as he walks away from her he surreptitiously licks it. It tastes horrible and soapy. Not even remotely like cum.

He can't help but laugh at himself. “Are you fucking happy now, William?” he says under his breath as he heads off in search of socks. “You freak, do you have a rotting lilac fetish or what?”

But somehow it's better than the rest of his errands. The pharmacist, the librarians, the owners of the little food stores where he shops, even the bank teller – they all know him, personally. They know his name and they know who Gabe is and that he was supposed to be home before the end of summer. They know the risks starship captains take. They see him every week, and they slice into him with sharp eyes.

“William,” they say, “are you getting enough sleep, there's shadows under your eyes – Will, are you sick? You're looking pale, mate – God, Bill, this fall weather is sure taking its toll on everyone, huh? Didn't think it was possible, but you're skinnier than ever – isn't it cold today, Mr. Beckett? Your hands are trembling – ”

On his way home, as he passes a corner where a smoke shop with a couple benches out front means a clump of loitering men, he hears a wolf-whistle and an indistinct yell, something about legs. It's possible, with his hair and long coat, they mistook him for a girl, or it's possible they just don't care. He spends a few happy minutes imagining in detail Gabe knocking out the cat-caller's teeth.

Cold as the flat is, it's inviting after the raw wind, but he's only there to put away his purchases and get a second scarf and a package of raisins. Then he heads out again. This is one of his rituals, probably his favourite one. Every Sunday before six, he goes down to the canal where there's a public boardwalk that runs beside it for a ways before twisting away through a small park. It's very pleasant. There's lots of hedges and elderberry bushes and a couple of goldfish ponds, and he never meets anybody. They're all having Sunday dinner with their families. He usually walks for about an hour, and turns around where the path goes into a dark gloomy patch of woods.

He carefully picks his way down the slimy wooden steps from the street to the boardwalk, looking for ducks. They go to sleep after dark, but sometimes when people walk by the younger, bolder ones will come out hoping for bread crusts. Gabe told him long ago that bread was bad for ducks. Ever since then he's brought the raisins.

“Good evening,” someone says, seeming to materialize out of the damp city air beside him. William jumps in surprise, and turns to get a good look. Of course, at six in the evening in November it's black as midnight, but the boardwalk is lit with periodically placed blue-white lights.

It's a man, William thinks, well, probably, anyway, and to his amazement he realizes that this guy is not only taller than him, but taller than Gabe is. Fucking no one is taller than Gabe. For the first time probably in his entire life, William feels short.

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you,” says the stranger, and William thinks about making a sarcastic comment about maybe he shouldn't be creeping up on people in a park in the dark, then. “You're William, aren't you?” the man continues.

William was only startled before, but now he's definitely scared, and demands “Who are you?” as he edges away.

“I'm Ryland,” the man says, and then “oh, I'm so sorry, of course you don't know me. Please forgive me. I used to be part of Gabe's crew on the Cobra.”

Cold dread bolts through William's chest, and he tries to stay calm. “Has something happened, then?” he says as steadily as possible.

“No – no, fuck, I'm sorry, I've scared you twice – nothing's happened to old Saporta, at least as far as I know. I haven't worked under him for quite some time – part of his crew was replaced last year – but I remember him talking about you. He's been gone awhile, hasn't he? Would you mind if I join you on your walk?”

William processes things one at a time. Gabe was always full of rollicking stories about his dashing, rough-and-tumble crew, and the mischief they'd get up to on missions. The name Ryland isn't familiar, but Gabe never names any of his crew aside from Nate – it was just a thing about Gabe, he never got into much detail about his flights, as though keeping it separate from his life with William. Well, if this Ryland had worked for Gabe, William trusts him, although he isn't thrilled to have the solitude of his weekly walk disturbed, but there's no way he can refuse without being rude.

“I'm a hoverlift operator at the moment,” Ryland says. “Working for the city. It's not the most mentally stimulating job, but it pays the bills. I'm the artistic type myself. Gabe's mentioned you're the same?”

“Yes,” William says cautiously. “I was very much into music in my teens, and I had a band for awhile. I'm still in the music scene, but I've been working for a concert promoter for years now.” He doesn't mention that after he was promoted, his work somehow turned into more and more paper pushing and time behind a desk, and less involvement in the actual music scene.

“How fascinating,” says Ryland. It sounds like it should be sarcastic, but it's completely sincere. “I was in the theatre arts myself.”

Ryland's eyes are bright blue, with a very intense stare. William's creep detector should be going off, but for some reason all he can think is that for once, someone is looking at him without being all pity and worry. He thinks he likes Ryland.

Later, back in the flat, drinking instant decaf and flicking through news sites on the internet, William runs over and over again in his head the time they spent together. Ryland had done most of the talking. He spoke about his distant past in acting and about the trials of an underpaid hoverlift operator, about the mayor's bullshit plans to restrict immigration, despite the labour shortage in the city. When they'd gotten to the woodsy part where William always turned around, Ryland had said something about that he should go down there some time. Something about how the path came to a dead end by a fountain, and it was very pretty. Somehow, William had agreed to meet Ryland for his walk again the next Sunday, but earlier, while there was still daylight.

As they'd prepared to part, Ryland had gently put a hand on his shoulder and looked at him earnestly. “I know Gabe well,” he'd said, softly. “And he will be back. Gabe is a cat. He will land on his feet and he will find his way back to you, no matter what's happened to delay him. I know what it's like to pine for a lover, William, and my heart hurts for you.”

He'd tucked William's scarf over his shoulder again, from where it was flapping loose, and delicately brushed a lock of William's hair off his face. “I'll see you then,” he'd said, and disappeared down the dark street.

Friday, William considers going out – just for one drink, or even to a cafe, but he doesn't in the end. He used to go out clubbing nearly every week. It was something to do, it was easy to make a ritual of, and it was pleasant. Between his work and Gabe, he knew of plenty of clubs, each with plenty of pretty strangers dancing in their tight shiny clubbing clothes, more than happy to kiss a pretty stranger, dancing beside them in his own tight shiny clubbing clothes. The difference was that they were already drunk, while he was still trying to get drunk off a dozen different lipsticks and aftershaves, and they were looking for an excuse to go home with someone, while he was looking for an excuse to put off going home alone. But it lost its charm by fall, and he hasn't set foot in a club for more than six weeks.

Instead, he walks back to the pet store where he saw the kittens on Sunday, but he isn't sure where it was and can't find it. He sees a florist's instead, and stands in the wind for awhile looking at the window displays: blood-red roses, searing pink roses, milk-white roses with pink-tipped petals, roses in such a rich and buttery golden yellow it makes his throat ache. Pale purples next to dark plummy ones, soft peachy roses next to flaming tangerine.

The rest of the flowers he isn't sure of the names of. Carnations or chrysanthemums or something. Baby's breath. Who knows. Weird fucking names. At least roses were obvious.

Sunday morning, William wakes at seven, and lies on his back staring out the window. Last week he lay until afternoon. He needs to get up, do his weekly shopping earlier this time, but he thinks about Gabe rubbing a long thumb over his pulse point, smirking at him, and he lies still and watches the billowing steam against the grey sky.

“It reminds me of home,” Gabe said when they were first looking at this flat, when William had objected to the dismal view from the dormer window. “Just like Jersey – ” he'd insisted so fiercely that William gave in without much of a fuss. It had been, what, hundreds of times? that Gabe had stood at window and smiled wistfully at the concrete and industrial jungle, and the four massive stacks of the nuclear reactor towering above the lower buildings and gated lots that lay in a scrambled rusty maze stretching toward the harbor.

William gets up and goes about his day. He tells himself that his heart beats fast from stress, from not eating enough, from getting less sleep than usual. He anxiously checks the time again and again, but doesn't he always hate being late to anything? He combs his hair, puts on clean pants and carefully winds a passably stylish scarf around his neck before he leaves.

He doesn't have an excuse for that.

Ryland is waiting for him by the slippery steps. “Hello again, William,” he greets him in a voice that William can't quite gauge – is it sincerely or ironically dramatic? William's boots skid on the boards, and Ryland instantly catches him by the elbow to steady him. His hands are so big, thinks William, as big as Gabe's, and that's saying something. Or even bigger.

“How are you feeling?” says Ryland as they set off down the boardwalk.

“OK.” William thinks something sharp about Ryland not being his counselor, but he regrets the thought as soon as it hits. Ryland is just Gabe's old friend, trying to cheer him up, and god knows he could use it.

“I brought you a flower,” Ryland says out of nowhere, farther up the canal. He reaches into his overcoat, which hangs at a strange angle and probably holds all sorts of mysteries, and brings out an orange rose.

William remembers the florist's shop, and the dazzling colours, and takes it carefully. It smells sweet, and maybe a bit musky, or maybe that's just the pollution in the air.

“Thank you,” he says, carefully cradling the splash of colour in his hands.

“I've an associate who says you were window-shopping at a flower shop the other evening. It's a bit dull outside this time of year, and the colour goes very nicely with your hair. You have lovely hair, by the way.”

“Thank you.” William really doesn't know what to say to that.

Ryland stops and with a deft hand movement, tucks the stem of the rose into a button-hole on William's coat. “There. Beautiful.”

They talk briefly about Gabe and the weather, and walk in silence until they reach William's usual turnaround spot.

“Come on,” says Ryland, gesturing to the dim woods, “it's very nice actually, and not far to the fountain. I'm surprised you've never been there.”

William enters the trees with a shiver. A mist hangs heavy around the underbrush, and a couple of birds are singing. It's pretty, in a creepy sort of way.

He's never been in here before because the sight of the shadows unnerved him, and once he formed the habit of turning around, he didn't want to break it. He didn't used to come walking here. He and Gabe had other Sunday-evening traditions.

“There,” says Ryland, and in a bank of drippy green moss is set a narrow but deep concrete basin, with a white-robed ceramic female figure standing over it. Water bubbles up in her cupped hands and spills down into the pool.

William steps up to the railing at the edge of the basin. The iron is cold and wet and the chill seeps into his fingers. There are coins down below, dimes mostly, and nickels, and a very few pennies. He wonders how old the fountain is. They stopped minting pennies a long, long time ago.

“At my old high school,” Ryland says over the splash of the water, “there was a church across the street, with a statue of the Virgin who looked a great deal like this – most white-robey-girl statues look the same, I think – and it was traditional to kiss her on the lips for luck, before exams. She was up on a concrete pedestal, unnecessarily high and slippery. If you fell into the flowerbeds it was a bad sign, you were going to fail your exams. I never fell – height has its advantages, I'm sure you are aware – but I failed quite a lot of exams anyway."

William looks at the statue's cold white face and unnaturally curved lips. Back at their old flat, Gabe used to curse and complain daily about how low the doorways were, and how often he banged his head on them. William always humoured his ranting and kissed his forehead, and when they moved to their current flat with the appropriately-proportioned doorways, Gabe pouted and fake-whined that he'd never get any kisses anymore. “No, of course not, Gabe,” William had said sarcastically, “I refuse to kiss you ever again unless you smash your head against the wall.”

Gabe had grabbed him around the waist and tickled him, and William shrieked and then Gabe whispered that he'd bash his head into as many walls as he needed to if it meant William would kiss him, and he'd never been happier, and he was so lucky to have him, and...

Tears are pouring down his face, and the white statue and grey concrete and vibrant green moss are blurred together in a smear of colour. There's a terrible, terrible pain in his throat, he's choking up so hard, he can't breathe and his knuckles have gone numb clutching the railing, but his chest hurts worse of all. He is sad, not grey skies and reactor steam sad but burning sad, acid rain sad, and he bows his head and lets himself hurt.

“William.” Gentle, gentle arms circle his waist, and he feels Ryland pressed up behind him. A hand combs the hair off his teary face, and wipes his cheeks with a handkerchief produced from nowhere. “William, baby boy, cry as much as you need to.” Ryland's breath is soft on his ear and cheek, and William shudders and melts back into his touch.

“Come on,” says Ryland, soft and soothing, “let's go back, alright? You'll get it out and it will feel so much better, and a couch and a hot drink will help. Come with me, okay?”

Part of William wants to stay frozen and clinging to the cold iron railing, but he melts into Ryland's side and lets himself be led away back down the path. Ryland is tall and steady and William stares at his own feet and feels hot tears well up and fall away.

Ryland's kitchen is warm, cozy, homey and comforting. William isn't crying anymore. Ryland puts a cup of some minty herbal tea in his hand, and brushes his wind-tangled hair off his face. “There's honey in it,” Ryland says. “for your throat.”

William's throat is raw from the cold air and the crying. The tea is sweet. He sits very still and looks at Ryland for a long time. He'd noticed the big hands and the fixating blue eyes, but not much else, and now he focuses on the thick shiny hair, large forehead, large ears and large, soft-looking lips.

Ryland is sitting very close to him. Their knees are touching. William wants to think things through, assess the situation. But instead he necks his tea, scalding his mouth, sets down the cup and meets Ryland's sharp gaze. Then he stands up and settles himself on Ryland's lap.

Ryland leans in a fraction of an inch. There's a moment where neither of them moves. William closes his eyes and tilts his head, and a moment later is rewarded with lips soft against his. One of Ryland's hands cups his face, the other slips around his waist and presses into the small of his back. Ryland's mouth is soft and he tastes like the same mint and honey as the tea, his stubble rough on William's face.

William carefully slides his hands up Ryland's chest. Through the shirt he feels muscles, nipples, and heartbeat, but mostly warmth. Ryland makes a little noise in his throat and runs his tongue lightly over William's lip and teeth, and pulls away.

“William,” he half-whispers, “only if you're sure you want to.”

William thinks about roses, and steam from the reactor, and whispers “yes, please.”

 

Ryland is gentle, soft as silk and rose petals, gentle and careful and soft and sweet. All long limbs, and muscles, and hair, and careful fingers, sweet words and tender touches. The bed is soft and the room is growing dim, William's hair is fanned out on the pillow and he is relaxed and loose-limbed, warm inside and out. Ryland is whispering sweet things about his cheekbones, his legs, his eyes, and his breath is warm and his lips soft on William's neck.

William closes his eyes and does not think of anything except Ryland's caresses, gentle hands on his ribcage and soft little kisses on his hipbones.

 

William lies in Ryland's bed, looking at the ceiling. The sheets are warm, and Ryland brings him soup and more tea. It's long since gotten dark. Ryland browses on an old computer, sitting up in bed, and talks a little bit about nothing, memories of high school, and some items in the news.

William falls asleep before ten for the first time in many years, spooned against Ryland. Everything is warm and dark and soft, and William's heart is steady and his breathing slow and even as he slips gently into sleep.

He wakes up earlier than usual, rested and alert. Ryland stirs and he slips out from under the warm blankets and pokes around for his clothes. “Next Sunday?” Ryland says sleepily. William finds his other shoe and straightens up.

“Maybe,” he whispers. He makes his way quietly to the door and puts on his coat. The orange rose is still in the top button-hole, now wilted and slightly crushed. His wallet is still in one pocket, raisins for the ducks in the other. He takes a cab home and gets ready for work.

The next Sunday he does his weekly shopping in the morning, and naps during the afternoon. He sets out for his walk in the evening, as usual, feeds the ducks and searches the smoggy sky for stars. When he reaches the woods, he hesitates.

“William,” Ryland moans in his mind, “oh – ” the fountain burbles, and Gabe says something about the reactor “It could kill us all, but that's the charm of it, Billvy – ”

Eight months, soft soft lips, grey sky, orange roses. William turns around and goes home.

That evening he searches the meanings of flowers and rose colours, and puts in at order at the florist's for a single long-stem yellow rose, to be sent anonymously to Ryland's address. He regrets it a little, and goes to bed. The sheets are cold.

Another two weeks go by much as before. William finds the pet store again, but the kittens are gone. He goes to a shelter instead, but the kittens there are all tabbies and gingers, none of them have blue eyes.

It's December now, and the holiday season is obnoxiously cheerful everywhere he looks. Even the light poles along the boardwalk have little ribbons on them. The city can't scrounge up money for safe concrete steps, but they can certainly afford ribbons, it seems. The weather gets colder and there are so few ducks out that William always comes home with as many raisins as he set out with.

He's watching the news one night, and the short towheaded newscaster reads a special report on safety failures in a sickeningly familiar type of spaceship.

“The shift from fuel engines to mini-reactors in light spacecraft was so sudden many vessels were improperly fitted with them, dangerous machinery hastily pasted in place to get the craft flightworthy again as soon as possible. The abruptness of it also meant that there was no time for proper security regulations to be agreed on, legislated and enforced, and in the past year or two, there's been a dramatic increase in small starships combusting seemingly randomly. Such a disaster destroys the entire craft, cargo and crew entirely and split-second fast. There's no confirmable debris, and the resulting cloud of particles usually disperses long before it can be detected. Entire ships simply disappear. A representative of the IBFS released a statement on Monday, outlining plans to inspect and upgrade crafts at risk, and launch an investigation into many of the cases of disappeared ships. When contacted, three of the largest companies responsible for these upgrades a decade ago declined to comment. Inspector Way is in the studio to give us the details on that.”

William turns off the TV, and goes back to the shelter. There aren't any kittens this time. A flustered volunteer explains that with Christmas coming, kittens are in high demand.

A bright orange-yellow blur catches William's eyes, and he sees a single lovebird in the next room.

“Ah,” says the clerk. “That one's very shy of people, she was one of a pair found severely neglected. The other one died, but she's doing alright. Trouble is, everyone wants lovebirds in pairs – especially for gifts – so there hasn't been much interest in her.”

William looks at the bird carefully. Her head is a brilliant orange, fading to peach around her neck and chest, and the rest of her body is such a rich and buttery golden yellow it makes his throat ache.

“She also burbles a lot – they were left alone in a room with an aquarium that had a noisy pump, so they never picked up any human speech, but she makes water noises all the time. Splashing, bubbling. Sir, are you alright – ”

William wipes his eyes on his scarf and reaches for his wallet. “I'll take her.”

He puts the TV in storage in a closet, and sets up her cage and perch on the little table where the TV was. He thinks about naming her Patricia after the little blond anchorman, but settles on Rose. No other name fits anywhere near as well.

William is patient and careful, and after a week of coaxing and waiting, Rose agrees to sit on his hand. It's only for couple of seconds, but he cries for an hour.

The day after that he comes home from work and every light in the flat is on, some frightful track that sounds like a chainsaw over a drumbeat is playing in the den, and Gabe is the kitchen swearing at the dishwasher.

William drops his bag and is in Gabe's arms in two steps.

“Billvy!” Gabe honks, squeezing him so hard his ribs creak. “Fucking hell, it's been so fucking long, everything's all gone to shit. You're so skinny. There's no food in this place, the dishwasher doesn't look like it's been used in a year, it's fucking freezing, and to cap it all off there's a fucking bird in the dining room, and it sounds like it's taking a drunk piss all the time.”

William presses his face harder into Gabe's neck. Gabe feels so real, solid and warm and loud, and William is on the verge of tears again. He's euphoric with joy that Gabe is really holding him again, he's weak with relief that Gabe isn't dead, but foremost he's tense will cold fear that this isn't real. Maybe it's a dream, or he died and this is the afterlife.

“'S really you?” he mumbles. “Real? God.”

“Billvy.” Gabe's voice is soft and full of love. “Yes, this is real. Very real. I've got you. God, I've missed you so, so much. Sweetheart.”

He hugs him even tighter, and William presses his lips into Gabe's neck before pulling back slightly and straightening up.

“It's been nearly a damn year, Saporta,” he says, and his voice only cracks a little.

Gabe kisses him hard, and for a good few minutes. “I know, and I'm so fucking sorry, Bill. I do love a good bit of adventure, but you know I wouldn't stay away from home so long if I could've helped it.”

He holds him silently for a minute. “Oh,” he says, a bit guiltily, “Nate's going to be staying with us for a bit. Seeing as it's my fault he's out of a job. I said he could crash our couch. Hope you don't mind.”

So that explains the chainsaw music, William thinks. He lets go of Gabe, and goes to wash up and find food for dinner. “Out of a job?”

“Yes. We...we're done. I'm quitting the freelance captain thing. We had a wild good time of it, but...it's been ten years.”

William doesn't say anything. The first selfish thought that leaps into his head is that Gabe won't leave him for months and months at a time anymore, but he pushes it away. “But you love flying more than anything.”

“I do. And who knows, maybe I'll find a way into it now and then. But the Cobra's over. It hasn't felt right since the crew changed, and I'm getting to be a tired-out old man, Billvy. Maybe I want a routine, maybe I want to be able to shower every day – hell, maybe I want kids. I'll miss the times I've had. Good gig while it lasted, but you gotta know when to cash it in and quit while you're ahead.” He seems to notice he's rambling, and his tone gets bright again. “What's the point of having such a smoking hot lover if you're never there to have him?”

William feels himself grinning from ear to ear. It's been a long time.

A few hours later, the two of them – William and Gabe, that is, Nate being on the couch and Rose in the dining room – are cuddled together in the dark. William is safe and warm and almost everything is perfect, except that one thing, the last time he felt so safe and warm in the dark.

“Gabe,” he says.

“Mm.”

“I go to clubs a lot. At least I used to.”

“You're a concert promoter. You'd be shit at your job if you didn't.”

William snorts in spite of himself. “I mean, to dance and like. Make out with strangers.”

Gabe yawns. “Naturally. And?”

William's tongue is suddenly thick and woolly, and choking him. “I go on walks...every week...by the canal...”

“Of course you do. Is this going anywhere or are you just really bad at pillow talk?”

“I met a man, who said he knew you...Ryland.”

Gabe tenses. “Ah. Yes. You know there was that messiness with part of the crew leaving and me having to replace them last year. There may have been some hard feelings. I hope he didn't take it out on you...?”

“No.” As soon as he says it, William realizes, actually, perhaps yes, but he doesn't say that. “We – he – I – Gabe. I slept with him.”

Gabe goes very still.

“I'm sorry. It wasn't right. It – ” William wants to say it was a mistake, but he can't, because it wasn't. The memory of lying warm and close in the dark with Ryland, just as he is now with Gabe, is too strong. “Can you forgive me?”

Silence.

“Yes,” Gabe says so softly William can hardly hear him. “In a heartbeat. Billvy, I know you better than anyone in the solar system – except your sister, probably – I'm sure you had reasons for whatever you did. You never do anything rashly.”

“But I did,” William whispers. “For once. I did it without thinking about the consequences, or you – I was just thinking about him.”

Gabe says something so unexpected then, William almost thinks he misheard. “I know Ryland too, Billvy,” he says softly, “and his charms are something very powerful indeed, aren't they?”

William says nothing. Gabe goes on. “I forgive you. I understand. And let's be real. If the situation was reversed, who the hell thinks I wouldn't do the same? I'm Gabe fucking Saporta.”

That gets a laugh out of William, and Gabe kisses his laughing mouth, and says “Not to change the subject, but you know, we should get another bird. So she doesn't get lonely while we're both out. Nate is a man of many talents, but he probably isn't very good company for a parrot.”

It turns out that it's very difficult to buy single lovebirds. In the end they get a pair. William worries that they'll fight, but the three of them get along fine.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Possibly there will be a sequel


End file.
